


The Azure World

by Gemmiel



Series: Midnight Blue [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Castiel, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmiel/pseuds/Gemmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean really, really wants to see Cas' wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd rather not have two WIPs at once, but this is a short one, which should only require one additional chapter. I just love wingkink too much *sighs*. This was intended as PWP, but is showing slight signs of character development. Set in season 8.

It’s irrational to keep looking. Dean knows that. They’re _invisible,_ after all. But he hears the rustling, flapping sound every time Cas arrives, and it compels him to look. He’s gotten to the point where he wants to see Cas' wings really, really badly.

But no matter how he tries, he can’t quite see them, so he's taken to imagining them. Sometimes he thinks they might be white and fluffy, like summer clouds, like pure drifting snow, like the traditional angel wings depicted in art. But Cas isn’t exactly traditional—he’s not what you’d call a Hallmark-type angel—so Dean figures that’s probably not right. He imagines them shaded in colors of the rainbow, like a Renaissance painting he saw once. But somehow he can’t quite imagine Castiel, Badass Soldier of the Lord, with friggin’ rainbows on his back. He imagines them as dark, ominous stormclouds, like the shadows he’s seen on the wall a couple of times. But he suspects that isn’t quite accurate, either.

The thing is, he just isn’t sure what they might look like. And very slowly, it’s driving him insane.

It’s gotten to the point where he’s regularly jerking off to the thought of them, which is completely crazy. It’s bad enough that he’s turned on by Cas. Usually he’s into gorgeous, exotic women with dark hair and eyes full of promise, but for some reason lately he gets impossibly hot just from the thought of a nerdy guy in a crooked tie and a trenchcoat (not to mention a deep sexy voice and an intense stare that burns right through him). He can sort of deal with that. Plenty of guys are turned on by other guys, after all. It’s not like Cas is the first guy he's ever looked at with a little interest.

But being turned on this badly by the thought of wings? Well, it’s _weird,_ that’s what it is. It’s like he’s developed this bizarre fetish that no one else on the planet has. It makes him feel like a perv.

And yet somehow, he just can’t stop himself. Every time he’s in the shower, or when Sam leaves him alone and goes out to bang some chick he just met, Dean’s mind wanders to Cas and his wings. Within moments he finds himself hard and aching and wanting, and before he knows it he’s stroking himself, thinking about Cas standing over him, his wings spread, massive, rustling, quivering with leashed power, and—

And every fucking time he comes like a _rocket,_ goddamnit.

Right now he’s sprawled on the bed in an empty motel room (because Sam, unlike him, is still turned on by nice normal _wingless_ humans, and went out with a pretty blonde girl for dinner, and will probably get lucky because Sam almost always does), and he's sulking a little. The TV is on, but he’s not watching it. Instead he’s thinking about the way he just came in the shower, the way he'd fantasized that Cas was in there with him, his dark wings glistening with beads of moisture, beating and spreading wide as Dean went to his knees and—

 _Shit._ He throws the remote across the room and rolls over, burying his face in the pillow. He just came (really, really hard) not fifteen minutes ago, and already his mind is dragging him back down into the feather-filled gutter. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s fucking _obsessed,_ damn it.

“Dean.”

The deep, sensual voice startles him into yelping. He rolls onto his back and glares up at Cas, who’s standing right over his bed. Dean has had fantasies about seeing Cas standing over him this way about a million and one times now, and the thought makes his cheeks flush.

“What the hell, Cas?” he snaps out, trying to cover his reaction. “Can’t you ever knock like a normal person?”

Cas frowns down at him. “But I am not a…” His fingers make air quotes. “'Normal person.’”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” Dean sits up, scowling at the TV, which is still yammering away. He wants to turn it off so he can bask in the sound of Cas' voice, but the remote’s on the other side of the room now. “Did you need something?”

“Not really.” Cas settles onto the edge of the other bed. He’s finally gotten it drilled into his head that just standing there staring at people is creepy, so he’s making an effort to try for somewhat more human behaviors. His eyes are still scary intense as he looks at Dean, though. “I just sensed that you were… restless.”

Dean flushes again. How much does Cas watch him? How much does he _know?_ He imagines Cas watching him while he jerked off in the shower, moaning Cas’ name, and the thought embarrasses him at the same time it turns him on right down to his toenails.

“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s just… we ganked a werewolf today, and I’m always a little worked up after a good hunt. It makes it kinda hard to relax, you know?”

“I could help you relax.”

"Oh, yeah?" Despite himself, Dean can’t help the heavy thudding of his heart. “How?”

“Conversation,” Cas says. “Isn’t that how humans unwind at the end of the day?” 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees with a sigh, and flops back onto the bed. “I guess it is.”

Cas cocks his head, in that oddly birdlike way he has. “You sound disappointed.”

“No.” Dean doesn’t want to hurt Cas’ feelings. Cas is his friend, no matter how odd a friendship it might be. The fact that he’s developed a strange and inexplicable lust for Cas’ invisible wings doesn’t alter the fact that they’re friends. “I like talking to you, Cas. I’m just… I dunno… tired, I guess.”

Cas considers this carefully. “You are… worked up? And tired? Both at the same time?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean knows he isn't worked up because of the hunt, but he's not about to admit that. He sighs, carefully looking at the TV, because looking at Cas is likely to cause an embarrassing physical reaction. His defenses are kind of low right now, for whatever reason. He leans his head back and sighs. “Why don’t you just hang out here and relax with me?”

“All right,” Cas says, and to Dean’s shock the angel begins taking off his trenchcoat. Dean sits bolt upright.

“Hey,” he says. “What are you doing?”

Cas blinks at him. “Removing my coat. Is that not what humans do when they relax? Take off items such as coats and jackets?”

“Yeah, but…” Dean is taken aback. “I’ve just never seen you take it off before.”

“My vessel was wearing it when I took his body,” Cas says, rising and walking across the room to carefully lay his coat over the back of a chair. He removes his suit jacket as well, and to finish completely blowing Dean’s mind, begins unknotting his tie as well. “I ordinarily wear it as he did. But there is no reason I always have to wear it."

“But… but…” Dean becomes aware he’s sputtering, and tries consciously to form a coherent sentence. “You don’t get hot, do you?”

“No.” Cas unbuttons the top button of his shirt, and then walks back over and sits on the other bed, facing Dean. He looks rumpled and casual and so totally un-Caslike that Dean can hardly breathe. “But I have been studying humans more closely lately, and I believe that clothing represents a layer of formality. In some cases, almost a sort of armor. I have observed that humans wear more clothing around strangers, when they perceive they need more protection, but around friends and family, it is acceptable to wear less. Thus, always wearing my coat around you and Sam could be perceived as an attempt to…” The fingers make quote marks again. “'Keep my distance.’”

Dean is trying to make sense of Cas’ long speech despite the fact that his synapses have all fried. “So you’re trying not to act so standoffish? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” the angel agrees, looking pleased. “You are my friend, Dean. I wish for you to know that.”

“I do know that.” Dean stares at him a moment longer, then bursts out, “How do you take your coat off over your wings?”

Cas cocks his head again. “My wings exist on another plane, Dean. A less material plane.”

“But you can make them appear here if you want, can’t you? I mean, all those pictures of angels over the centuries… so many people have seen them… obviously you guys can show your wings to humans if you want to.”

“I can. I do not usually bother to manifest them unless I am attempting to intimidate someone.”

“So they’re like _your_ layer of formality.”

A corner of Cas’ mouth turns up. “I suppose there is some truth to that. They are a way of making myself look more impressive. More dangerous. Less…” He gestures at his body, and his mouth curves into a wry smile. “Like a ‘holy tax accountant.’”

“I’d like to see them,” Dean blurts out.

Cas’ smile fades, and he frowns a little. “I thought we were relaxing, Dean. Being informal.”

“I just… dude, _wings._ I mean, it’s not the kind of thing—most people can’t say they’ve seen—I’m just, I don’t know, interested…”

He stammers to a halt, hoping he isn’t blushing too much. He isn’t so much interested as he is totally dying of curiosity and unsatisfied lust, but he doesn’t see any reason to confess that. Cas studies him, with blue eyes that see way too much, and then he nods.

“I can manifest them if you would like,” he says. “But I will have to remove my shirt. Do you object?”

“No,” Dean manages in a hoarse whisper. He definitely does not object. Absolutely, positively not.

Cas glances at the television, and it switches off, plunging the room into a sudden silence. Dean watches as Cas unbuttons his shirt slowly. It’s almost like Cas is teasing him, but he realizes it’s probably more likely that Cas simply doesn’t remove his clothes, like, ever, and isn’t very good at it. Even so, by the time Cas gets to the last button, Dean is panting with eagerness to see Cas’ chest and shoulders. He hopes Cas can’t hear the raspy, harsh quality of his breathing, or if he does, that he won’t understand what it means.

Cas pulls off the shirt, very slowly and deliberately, and throws it aside. Dean stares. He once called Cas a nerdy little dude with wings, but with the shirt off, Cas is neither nerdy nor little. His body is well-muscled and strong, and his shoulders are broader than Dean ever would've guessed. There’s a light furring of dark hair in the center of his chest, and a trail of dark hair beneath his navel, leading toward…

Dean swallows, because he is totally scoping out another guy, and that’s not the way he swings. Well, most of the time. He’ll admit he’s looked at quite a lot of guys with interest, kissed a few, even shared one drunken grope session with a sexy guy he met at a bar. But Cas is the first one he’s been so totally hot for.

And Cas isn't a guy, quite, which is part of what confuses him.

He becomes aware that he’s staring at Cas’s abdomen, and blushes. He lifts his gaze to find Cas studying him, the blue eyes bright. “Okay,” he croaks. “Let’s see ‘em.”

There’s a sort of ripple in the air behind Cas, and Cas’ wings manifest. They are beautiful, so gorgeous that Dean’s mouth falls open. They are huge and impressive, and clearly designed to scare the living crap out of mortals. The wings, he recognizes, are a physical manifestation of the glory and majesty of the true form of Castiel, Shield of God, and as such they are strangely terrifying. It’s all Dean can do not to fall to his knees in instinctive submission to the heavenly being before him. Dimly, he realizes that’s what the wings are for, to put the fear of the Lord into the local yokels, to make mere humans tremble in fear, but knowing that doesn’t make them any less awesome.

He stifles his impulse to drop to his knees, to bow his head, to pray for mercy, and instead keeps his chin up and studies the wings with interest. They are enormous, so big that the left one is actually pushed up against the wall despite the fact that they aren’t fully spread, and they seem to flex and quiver with a life all their own. They are a vivid dark blue, the color of the summer sky in late afternoon. The blue is striated with black, and the feathers are tipped with silver-white. Sort of like a blue jay’s feather, he muses, remembering one he’d found in the woods as a little kid. Although now, for the first time, he begins to wonder if it was actually a bird feather at all. He remembers his mom telling him _Angels are watching over you,_ and wonders.

“Interesting,” Cas says. His voice is lower than usual, deeper. It rumbles over Dean like thunder.

“What’s so interesting?”

“Most humans have an automatic response to my wings. They kneel. They can’t help themselves.”

“I’m not most humans,” Dean says, as cockily as he can manage. 

Cas is staring at him, like a human actually looking at his wings, instead of cringing at his feet, is the most fascinating thing that’s ever happened to him. “You are not afraid of me,” he says, very softly. “Even with my wings… you are not afraid of me.”

“'Course I’m not afraid of you.” Dean drags his gaze away from the wings, and looks into Cas’ eyes. “You’re my friend.”

Cas stares at him steadily, his eyes as dark and as vivid as his wings. “But I am far more powerful than you. I could hurt you.”

“But you wouldn’t,” Dean says softly.

It's true, and yet it isn’t. He remembers Cas beating the crap out of him once, throwing him against a wall, striking him, raging. But he also knows that they’ve come a long way since then, and that Cas would never do that to him now. Cas no longer thinks of him as a mere human he can smite at will. Cas thinks of him as a friend.

Cas stares at him a moment longer, then drops his gaze. His wings quiver, and Dean can almost feel the uncertainty, the insecurity, coming off him in waves. This situation is obviously not playing out how Cas expected it to, and the angel is confused and uncomfortable.

“They’re beautiful,” Dean tells him, trying to put him more at ease. “Even more beautiful than I thought they’d be.”

The wings flex and stretch, as if Cas can’t hold back his flattered response to the compliment. “Thank you,” he says, very softly. “My body is not my own, but my wings… well, I am pleased you admire something that is actually _mine._ ”

“I do.” Dean rises to his feet, still struggling against the instinctive response of obeisance, and walks around the other bed, sitting down behind Cas. He can see the sudden tension in Cas’ back muscles, in the way his wings go stiff and still. “Mind if I touch?”

“T-touch?” Cas actually stammers, which makes Dean smile. It’s nice that he’s not the only one who’s a little freaked out here. “No mortal has ever touched my wings, Dean.”

“Well, I’m going to. Try not to smite me, okay?”

He carefully puts his hand on the very top of the wing, resting his palm on the ridge of bone, then curving his fingers around it. The blue-and-silver feathers all feel soft under his hand, but beneath the feathers he can feel bone and flesh and a beating pulse. The wing is alive beneath his hand, as alive as Cas himself is. He remembers Cas saying that in Heaven, he was a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, and wondered how exactly a wavelength can have a pulse. 

“You’re warm,” he says, stroking a hand along the strong bone, toward the outer feathers. Primaries? Yeah, he thinks that’s what you call them. The wing twitches beneath his hand, and Cas shivers. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

“When I manifest my wings, they are as physical as the rest of me.”

“But in Heaven, they’re not real?”

Cas sighs, sounding mildly exasperated, as he always does when Dean tries too hard to understand the inexplicable. “You are attempting to use terminology suited to the mortal plane of existence, and applying it to a plane that works on entirely different rules. My wings would appear real to you there, too. You have been in Heaven, Dean. You know that it seems just as physically real as Earth.”

“So your wings are real. Kind of.”

“Yes.” Cas’ voice sounds oddly strained. “There are no words in the English language to describe precisely how they are manifested. They simply _are._ ”

Dean recalls a quote from the Bible (well, from _The Prince of Egypt,_ actually). Moses asked the burning bush what it was, and God responded, _I am that I am._ He figures it’s pretty much the same thing. If the Lord of all creation can’t explain himself to humans better than that, then one of his angels probably can’t either. Cas _is,_ and his wings _are,_ and right now, that’s good enough for Dean. 

He pushes away his questions and loses himself in the sensation of touching Cas’ wings.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It grew. Third chapter should be the end, though!

Dean's other hand slips up to join the first one, and he runs his hands along the tops of both wings, as far as he can reach, then down across the feathers. He slips his fingers between the big feathers, exploring the feel of the fluffy down beneath, and Cas quivers. A little sound escapes him.

“Is that okay?” Dean can hear the hoarseness in his own voice. Running his fingers through Cas’ feathers this way feels like every one of his goddamned fantasies come to life, and he hopes like hell Cas isn’t going to tell him to stop, that it’s uncomfortable or painful or irritating, because if he has to stop now he’s just going to _die._

Cas nods, the movement jerky. “It is… fine.”

Dean gets the impression it’s better than fine. The wings are stirring beneath his hands, twitching with each touch, flaring every so often. Cas has shifted so his left wing has room to stretch out. Dean looks at the wings and figures they must each be ten or twelve feet long when fully extended. There’s no possible way human muscles, a human frame, can support all that, and yet… there they are.

Dean runs his hands down to the base of the wings, where the feathers merge into human flesh, and explores the skin there, thinking that area might be kind of sensitive. Sure enough, Cas whimpers, actually _whimpers,_ and Dean’s fingers grow damp, as if Cas is sweating.

“You like that.” He hears the low, sensual growl in his own voice.

“Dear heavenly Father, _yes._ ”

Dean figures that’s an angelic expletive, as close as Cas can get to taking the name of the Lord in vain, and he grins, stroking the skin there just a little harder. His hands are growing wetter, almost oily, and he realizes there’s some sort of gland there at the base of the wings. Like birds have for preening, he supposes. Keeps the feathers clean or waterproof or something. There’s a gland at the base of each great wing, and as he strokes Cas, they’re starting to… well, leak.

It’s weirdly inhuman, and something of a surprise-- like nothing he'd ever imagined in all his fantasies about Cas and his wings-- and yet he's intrigued. He rubs the oil onto his hands, then begins to stroke it through the feathers, figuring that’s what it’s for. It smells good, like sandalwood and vanilla, earthy and sweet all at once, and as he begins to massage it into Cas’ feathers, Cas utters a deep and heartfelt groan of pleasure. It’s such a human sound that Dean almost laughs. But he holds back the reaction, afraid of hurting Cas’ feelings.

His fingers work through all the feathers he can reach, stroking them from base to tip, digging in to the downiness beneath. Cas whimpers and moans, and the oil runs down his back freely, scenting the air with its sweet, dark fragrance. Eventually Dean tries tugging on a big feather—not hard enough to pull it out, but fairly firmly—and Cas cries out sharply.

“Okay there, Cas?”

“Do that again.”

Cas’ voice is lower than he’s ever heard it, rumbling, _desperate_ , and Dean can't say no to that tone. He begins tugging all the big flight feathers, one by one. With every tug, Cas cries out, his head dropping back, his body undulating, his wings rippling.

Jesus. He’s making Cas come undone just by touching his wings. It’s like one of his freakin’ fantasies come to life, and already he's so hard he hurts. But he wants more. A lot more.

He manages to let go of the wings and slides his arms around Cas, unbuckling his belt and unfastening his pants. Cas doesn't object, and in fact does his best to help, shoving his shoes off, wiggling to get the trousers and boxers off. He wonders why Cas didn't just mojo all his clothes off, but maybe he's enjoying the slower human method. Or maybe he's just too befuddled to make his mojo work right now. It doesn't matter that much, because Dean is pretty damn good at getting other people naked. You don't need mojo when you have the Winchester magic.

“Lie down on the bed,” he says softly once all the impediments are out of the way. “Face down.”

Cas’ head turns and he looks sideways at Dean with an expression Dean can’t decipher, a shy glance from beneath his dark lashes. He doesn't argue, though, just stretches out on the bed, face in the pillow, his wings spread out in all their azure magnificence. Dean sits down on his upper thighs and just stares.

The wings are beautiful, blue and black and silver, and Cas’ back is slick with oil, and his ass is… well, naked. And way sexier than Dean had expected. 

The sight of Cas, nude and exposed that way, does something to his insides. Earlier he’d felt that impulse to kneel before Cas, to cringe before all that power and glory... but now Cas is beneath him, submitting to _him,_ and it’s the most incredible sensation, knowing that an angel of the Lord is willingly giving himself over to a human.

He looks at Cas’ trembling feathers, the oil dribbling down his back, the tension visible in every one of his muscles, and wonders where in the world to start. 

A little hesitantly, he bends and brushes a kiss over Cas’ feathers, near where his wings connect to his body, and Cas gives a sharp cry. Dean does it again and again, kissing his way along the great wings, and before long Cas is writhing beneath him. He buries his face in the pillow, trying to smother his reactions, but Dean can still hear his whimpering sounds of pleasure, and it makes him harder than he’s ever been before. 

Dean buries his face in one enormous wing, nuzzling into the downy feathers, and at the same time he begins rubbing his thumb right at the base, where the oil gland is. He’s rewarded with a rush of slick wetness, and Cas seems to forget about stifling his responses. His head arches back, and he howls with pleasure. Actually _howls._

“Jesus,” Dean gasps. He's never figured Cas would be a screamer. In his fantasies Cas had usually been a little remote, a little dignified. _Stately,_ like you'd figure an angel would be. Apparently his fantasies were a little off the mark. “You all right?”

“Unnnhhh.” Cas sounds mindless, drugged with pleasure. “Dean—I want—I need—"

“I know.” Dean keeps rubbing him there, a little more gently, and Cas squirms frantically.

“ _Yes,_ ” he groans. “Right there—Dean, right _there—please--_ "

Faced with a begging, whimpering, wrecked angel, Dean can’t help himself. He shifts, lowers his mouth to the little gland, and licks it. The oil is, well, oily, but the taste isn’t bad. And what it does to Cas is incredible. Cas sobs, a shattered, pathetic little noise, and his wings rise up around Dean, wrapping him in a blue world where there is nothing except him and Cas.

He'd thought maybe he’d pushed Cas too far, driven him over the edge, but Cas is still shuddering and taut with need when he lifts his head from the little oil gland. Dean's cock aches like a sonofabitch, and he thinks briefly about moving up Cas’ back and rubbing it there, right between his wings, stroking his hard-on through all that warm slippery oil until he comes all over Cas’ shoulders, and maybe on his wings as well. He imagines his come spattering white against the deep blue feathers, and the image makes him twitch with need and lust.

But no. Maybe one of these days, but not today. Right now, he wants something a little more... intimate.

He wets his hand thoroughly with the oil, and then slides it down Cas’ back and between his butt cheeks. Cas moans, eagerly pressing his hips back against Dean’s hand.

Dean isn’t exactly an expert on this stuff, but he’s looked at enough gay porn (not that he’d ever admit that out loud) to have a pretty good idea what to do. He slips a slick, oiled finger into Cas’ body—God, he’s so _tight_ —and begins to stroke and explore, very gently. Cas’ body resists at first, but Dean whispers to him— _relax, buddy, it’s okay, I promise I’ll make it good for you_ —and before long his body loosens up enough to allow Dean to add a second finger. His wings are still wrapped around Dean, holding him in what appears to be an angelic embrace, and little whimpers of pleasure rise from him.

Cas seems happy enough, but he’s no longer trembling on the edge of a screaming orgasm like he was earlier. Dean wants to make him hotter, so he slips in a third finger, exploring more deeply, caressing Cas' silken body a little more intensely, and Cas’s spine arches like a drawn bow.

“I want to fuck you,” Dean whispers. “Is that okay?”

Cas whimpers again, shuddering beneath him. “Yes. _Please._ ”

Dean pauses for a few seconds to get all his clothes off. Fortunately he’s just wearing an old Zeppelin t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, so it doesn’t take long. He slicks his cock with the fragrant oil, and then kneels over Cas, urging him to rise up on hands and knees and lifting his hips a bit. Dean presses up right where he needs to be, then holds himself there, trembling. 

He can feel how tight the entrance to Cas' body is, and the sensation of his cock pressed right up against it is almost enough to make him come. He grits his teeth, steadying himself, and pushes in, just a little. Cas groans, and Dean echoes him.

God. Cas is so _hot._ This is his first time going this far with a guy, and he wonders if it's always this intense, or if it's just that Cas is an angel, burning hotter than ordinary mortals. He isn't sure, but Cas feels so much hotter and silkier than he expected. Some of it might be the oil, which is still trickling down Cas' back, making their bodies slick. 

But no matter how wet and hot Cas feels, he doesn’t dare push too hard. Cas is durable, but Dean wants him to really enjoy this. As far as he knows, Cas has never done this with anyone else. He's chosen Dean as his first sexual experience, and that thought is so awe-inspiring that it makes Dean's throat tighten and his eyes burn. He blinks hard, all but overwhelmed.

Despite his efforts to control himself, he can't hold still forever. He slips into Cas' body slowly, inch by inch, and as he sinks more deeply inside, he finds himself holding onto Cas’ wings, clutching them, as he begins to move in a slow, steady rhythm. Cas whines and trembles, his body moving with Dean’s, his wings rising and falling with each stroke of Dean’s body into his.

God, he’s fucking Cas. He’s _fucking Cas._ An angel, a seraph, a holy and righteous being that he ought by rights to have knelt to, who instead has submitted to _him._ It ought to be a religious experience, uplifting and sacred and sublime, but it's not like that at all. Instead it’s physical, earthy, base, and utterly unangelic. 

He thrusts harder, so that his balls slap against Cas’ ass, and finds that he's lost in sensation, no longer able to control himself. He wants to keep moving slowly, but his body has other ideas, and he discovers that he’s fucking Cas mindlessly, like an animal, dirty words falling from his lips in a litany, his chest heaving, his skin wet with sweat.

And Cas is reacting the exact same way. For this moment, he’s not an angel from a higher plane of existence, despite the steadily beating wings. He’s just a guy, struggling to satisfy the primitive cravings of his body, straining toward the pleasure he aches for, grunting and gasping and sobbing as another man fills him and fucks him and dominates him.

Dean can tell Cas is getting close by the shudders that rack him. His fingers dig into the fluttering wings, tugging hard on the feathers, and at the same moment he lowers his head and licks gently at one of the oil glands. Cas wails, sounding completely broken apart, and his body trembles all over, bucking wildly beneath Dean as he comes. His wings rise up again, wrapping around Dean, and Dean lets himself go, buried deep in Cas' body, surrounded by the feathers he’s fantasized about so many times. Ecstasy washes over him as he climaxes, bright and hot and searing, in a rush of golden light that fills him to overflowing.

He calls Cas’ name, and that’s the last thing he knows for quite some time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said before, this one wound up with slightly more attention paid to characterization than I had originally intended. I meant for it to be entirely PWP, but it didn't quite cooperate.

“Dean.”

The voice is demanding, annoyingly so. Dean just wants to lie there, floating in a peaceful golden haze, happy and warm and relaxed and…

“ _Dean._ ”

Dean sighs irritably, and responds without opening his eyes. “You talk too much, you know that?”

“You’re all right.” Cas sounds relieved. “I believe you were brushed by my grace. I was concerned that I had inadvertently injured you.”

“I’m fine.” He’s better than fine. He’s totally awesome. He’s experienced a lot of afterglow over the years, but it's never felt quite like this. His muscles are loose and his brain is fuzzy and he's ridiculously contented. He drags open his eyelids, discovering that he's flat on his back against the rumpled sheets, and grins up at the face hovering anxiously over him. “See? I still got my eyeballs.”

“It’s not funny,” Cas grumbles. “I could have hurt you.”

“Nah.” Dean reaches up and cups a hand against Cas’ cheek. “You’d never do that.”

Cas freezes, going very still. “Not on purpose,” he says softly. “But I lost control of my responses more quickly than I expected.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean stretches and yawns, feeling his naked body brush against Cas'. It's so intimate it makes his head whirl, and his eyelids flutter shut again. He sighs deeply, letting the mingled scents of sandalwood and vanilla and come fill his head. “That’s what sex does to you, dude.”

There is a silence. Dean opens his eyes again to see Cas looking at him, the dark hair standing up in spikes all over his head, the blue eyes very intent. He’s only an inch or two away, so close their noses are practically touching, and Dean almost snaps _Cas, personal space_ out of habit. But he catches himself, because he and Cas have already been up in each other’s personal space in a big way. It doesn’t get much more personal than what they’ve just done, after all.

“I liked it,” Cas says, very softly. His wings, Dean notices, are drooping off the sides of the bed, as if they're just as satiated as the rest of him. “I enjoyed having sex with you, Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s hand tangles in the hair at the back of his head, and without thought, he draws the angel down for a kiss. “Me too.”

They didn’t kiss earlier, so it seems the most natural thing in the world to remedy that oversight. Their lips move together for long moments, gently exploring, with just the slightest brush of tongues. It’s warm and intimate and strangely sweet.

When Cas pulls back a little, and Dean opens his eyes, he’s surrounded by Cas’ wings again. He huffs gently in amusement.

“Back to the blue world, I see.”

Cas blinks at him. “The what?”

“You keep wrapping your wings around us, buddy. It’s kind of cool.”

Cas looks at him a long moment, as if debating whether to share something or not. At last he says, a little hesitantly, “It is odd that you would call it that. You remind me of a poem that has been much on my mind lately.”

“Oh yeah? What poem is that?” 

“It is by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Are you familiar with him?”

Dean wasn’t exactly focused on academic studies in high school (though a lot of pretty girls did tutor him in biology), and English definitely wasn’t his top subject, but one of the few works of literature that made an impact on him was Tennyson’s “Ulysses.” He can even quote a lot of it, even now, decades later (that bit about “we are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven” is really starting to resonate with him as he gets older) . But he’s not about to admit that he likes poetry of any sort. 

“I think I've heard of him,” he says neutrally. “How does the poem go?”

“It is called ‘The Eagle.’” Cas looks down at him and recites in his deep voice:

_He clasps the crag with crooked hands;_  
 _Close to the sun in lonely lands,_  
 _Ring'd with the azure world, he stands._

_The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;_  
 _He watches from his mountain walls,_  
 _And like a thunderbolt he falls._

Dean thinks about that for a moment. At last he says, “Are you lonely, Cas?”

“I think perhaps I am,” Cas says with a sigh. “After everything I did in Heaven, all the angels I killed, all the havoc I wreaked, I am not welcome there. But I do not truly belong here on Earth, either, no matter how much I like it here. I belong…”

“Close to the sun, yeah. I get it.” He strokes Cas’ dark hair, and a feeling of melancholy rises within him. He’s tried not to think about their relationship too closely, but now that the two of them have actually been intimate, it’s hard to avoid the thoughts that have worried him for some time. On some level he’s always known that this thing between him and Cas can’t go all that far. He’s just a human, and Cas is… well, _more._ Grander. Vaster.

“The problem is, I have discovered I am no longer happy ‘close to the sun.’” Cas makes quote marks with one hand, looking earnest. “I am beginning to realize that I am happiest when I fall to Earth.”

Dean’s heart twists. He thinks of Cas watching Earth from far above, an observer, but not really part of this world, and it makes his chest hurt. “Cas,” he says. “You haven’t fallen. You’re still an angel of the Lord.”

Cas looks at him. “Actually,” he says softly, “I think I fell a long time ago.”

A shiver runs through Dean, and he remembers another angel—Hester—saying in icy contempt, _You have fallen in every way imaginable._

God, he wishes that were true. Part of him—the selfish, petty part—wants Cas to stay here with him forever, to fall the way Anna did, just so Dean can keep… this. The feel of Cas’ body against his, the taste of his lips, the way Cas sounds when he cries out in the throes of orgasm. The slight curve of his lips when he smiles, the way he stares at Dean like the human is the most important thing in all creation, the impossible blue of his eyes. Fetish or no fetish, he’d gladly give up ever seeing those magnificent wings again if it meant having Cas here with him always. If it meant that Cas could belong to him rather than to Heaven. 

And it would be better for Cas, too. _Close to the sun in lonely lands._ What’s the fucking point in being an angel if you’re lonely, hated and reviled by your own kind? Doesn’t Cas deserve to be close to someone? Doesn’t Cas deserve to be happy? Dean's not stupid, and he knows he means an awful lot to Cas. He doesn’t know if angels love the way humans do, but there’s no mistaking the way Cas looks at him. Cas thinks of him as a hell of a lot more than a friend. He’s certain of that.

And yet Cas has other things going on in his life, things that are far more important than his relationship with a single human. Tablets to search for and a Heaven to help make better and problems that Dean probably couldn’t even begin to grasp. Castiel is so much, and he is so little. How could someone like him, someone so small and insignificant and _human,_ truly make a being like Cas happy?

 _Damn it._ He exhales in frustration. He’s not exactly a disinterested observer here, and he doesn’t know what to tell Cas, doesn’t know how to advise him. All he knows is that he wants what’s best for Cas, not for him. He wants Cas to be happy.

“Stay here for a while longer,” he says at last, putting his other hand around Cas and curving his fingers into the warm feathers. Right now, it’s all he's got to offer. It's all he’s ever had with Cas, a few moments of the angel's time, here and there. He doesn’t quite dare hope for more. He isn’t even sure it’s right to hope for more. But spending just a little while together—that’s not too much to ask for, is it? 

He digs his fingers into the blue and silver wing, stroking, caressing, and Cas sighs in pleasure.

“I have no intention of going anywhere else right now,” he says softly, and lowers his head to kiss Dean again.

*****

_Like a thunderbolt he falls._

Naomi watches through Castiel’s eyes, disgusted, as the angel does all sorts of dreadful physical things with Dean Winchester. The seraph, she thinks in revulsion, has fallen further than she could have imagined. For angels in vessels to engage in the human sort of intimacy isn’t unheard of, though it’s frowned upon. But to form a genuine connection with a human? To dream of leaving Heaven behind, just so he can be with that human? It's disgraceful. It's revolting.

It’s _perverse,_ that’s what it is.

Still, her job is to rescue angels that have swerved from the truth, that have lost the path of righteousness and are treading a dangerous, willful road. She believes that this regrettable situation may provide her with a method of helping Castiel. Over the centuries, the seraph has often proven himself to be difficult to control, but she has always managed to bring him back into line, one way or the other. This time, she perceives a very simple way to force Castiel back under Heaven’s control. She sees the path to Castiel’s redemption. A way to dehumanize him, in the literal sense, and make him a soldier of the Lord once again-- cold, ruthless, disinterested. A brief conversation between the human and the angel showed her the way.

_I could have hurt you._

_**Nah, you'd never do that.**_

_Not on purpose._

When Castiel lies limp and satiated beneath the human a second time, Naomi calls him back to the blue and beautiful world of Heaven, puts a blade in the bewildered seraph’s hand, and touches his forehead. And then she watches him slaughter facsimiles of his lover, over and over again, until the lingering look of pain and confusion in his eyes fades, and he is able to murder Dean Winchester without any hesitation at all.

Castiel is falling, Naomi thinks, falling into sin and disobedience, allowing himself to be tempted by the human frailties of flesh and emotion and need. But she will bring him back to the path of righteousness and obedience and justice. She will help him, as she has helped so many angels over the millennia. She will wash away his half-formed dreams of falling from this azure world into the dark, ugly world below, and keep him here in Heaven.

She will save him.


End file.
